Two damn weeks
by Cheesespread
Summary: It's been two weeks since they were trapped in that swimming pool. Two weeks of nightmares showing them what could have been. Both men unaware that their relationship will change forever. Sherlock/John
1. Chapter 1

"_Sorry boys! I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"  
_

_Moriarty smiled at them both, the expression was cold and calculating, empty of any emotion and John Watson had watched in fear as Sherlock's eyes had hardened, his own expression mimicking that of the consulting criminals. They seemed to be locked in a silent battle._

_John kept watching, afraid to blink as Sherlock's target changed from the man, to the bomb on the floor, there was no hesitation as he fired. _

_John felt the fire licking his face, consuming every inch of him, burning every molecule as he heard someone screaming in the background, and then there was nothing else…_

"Ah!" John shot up quickly, the nightmare still clinging to him, and despite to cool breeze from the open window, and the blanket having been kicked to the floor the doctor was covered in a film of perspiration.  
He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and sat there for a few minutes, eyes closed as he waited for his heart to stop thudding in his chest, and for his hands to stop shaking. It had been two weeks since they had been trapped in that swimming pool by Moriarty and his team of snipers. Two damn weeks and the army doctor was still plagued with nightmares, he would have laughed if he didn't feel so pathetic.

Vivid realities of what could have been kept him awake at night. What could have been if Mycroft had not turned up; if Sherlock had pulled the trigger, and John knew the man had been tempted. He had seen the disappointment in those cool grey eyes as they had both watched Sherlock's smug, arrogant brother stroll up behind Moriarty, a slight wave of the hand in greeting to the two men. Mycroft had stood there, in the middle of them all, hands in pockets as he played the criminals greatest weakness against him. The one thing they all knew James Moriarty would value above all else; his own life.

It took John and Sherlock a moment to realise that those red dots that had paralysed them to the spot were no longer upon them. Mycroft had chuckled, eyes like stone, informing Moriarty that he was not the only one who didn't like to pull the trigger, and the man had proceeded to sulk with all the grace of a toddler being denied of his favourite toy.

To their great annoyance, and in Sherlock's case barley concealed rage the man had simply walked out of the same door he had entered in. Only being able to do so because of the bomb that continued to lie on the floor and the threat of a remote detonation from a very reliable source. He had informed Sherlock that next time, and indeed there would be a next time his big brother would not be there to save him.

All three of them had left quickly, not waiting to see if such a threat was indeed a bluff and Sherlock, upon John's request had simply text Lestrade with an air of boredom before starting at Mycroft, as if this was an everyday occurrence for the brothers. Neither of them acknowledging, nor apparently caring when John had sunk to the cold, wet concrete in relief as the adrenaline left his body with the sound of police sirens in the distance.

"Now can you understand why mother worries so? Getting to know such strange men," Mycroft had sighed, looking at his watch as a black car without number plates or badges pulled up and Sherlock crossed his arms.

"I know you Mycroft, I doubt anyone could possibly be stranger…"

John slowly got out if the bed, each muscle protesting as the remnants of the two brother's bickering dissolved from his mind, and back in the present he made his way downstairs, not bothering to change his white t-shirt and red flannel bottoms.

221b Baker Street was oddly quiet, not even Sherlock Holmes was still awake. John flicked on the light to the main room and was greeted with the usual chaos of papers and jars, not to mention the skull that resided upon the red arm clock above the fire place read 4:30am and John groaned to himself, knowing that he was awake now and flicked the kettle on, spooning coffee granules and sugar into a cup his mind free to wander.

Who was James Moriarty? The man had walked right under their noses and they hadn't noticed, hadn't even come close to suspecting the "clumsy" I.T technician. The man had even given Sherlock his number, a fact which still perplexed John; _why pretend to be gay to get to the detective?_

Sherlock had picked up the card with the hastily written number on it and studied it with what John thought was annoyance. It was obvious- and not for the fact Sherlock had told the doctor- that the man was married to his work. But then he had shot a glance over at John and smiled as if in apology. The kind of apology a lover gives when they have been propositioned by another and John had spluttered and had suddenly become very interested in a spot on the floor.

John rubbed his face and poured the boiling water into his mug; the only one not having been broken by Sherlock during a rather hap hazard experiment, and the one now hidden in the breadbin. He was over analysing everything; everything had a hidden agenda, another meaning. _Good god I'm turning into him!_ John thought, this sudden realisation nearly caused him to drop the mug of coffee, and as he sat on the sofa his thoughts once again drifted to the lanky detective.

John Watson could not remember being attracted to another man, through out his life he had dated women, even is his eyes did stray on more than one occasion. Even the men in the army, the men the doctor had risked life and limb with, had bled with, and eventually had nearly died with. None of them had grabbed his attention more so that Sherlock Holmes.  
He found himself staring at the detective's thin build, that mop of dark unruly hair. The way the man sprung into life at the start of an investigation, eyes sparkling with such joy that John couldn't help but to be drawn in. It scared the short, mousey-blonde haired man.

Standing in that swimming pool he had realised he _needed_ Sherlock, he needed this life. The though of losing him to that bomb was enough to make his knees go weak, make his chest tighten and eyes burn with unshed tears. He needed that man in his life, in which context he was unsure of now; all of his lines were blurred and nothing made sense anymore.  
Watson sat there, deep in though, unaware that he was not the only one trapped in a nightmare.

* * *

**Hello!**

I hope you enjoy :) It's been a VERY long time since I wrote any fan fiction. Well any fan fiction I wanted to post, so I may be a little rusty.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sherlock Holmes stood there in that dark cold swimming pool; the smell of chlorine burnt his nostrils as he listened out for every possible noise. Any sound that would indicate he was not alone, as he knew he wasn't. Everything had started here, it was only logical this was where it should end._

_Then he finally heard the voice, but something was not right. He knew this voice, knew the face it belonged to. Had sat and stared at this particular face from his favourite arm chair._  
_"This is a turn up isn't it Sherlock?"_

_"John?" Was all he could choke out, every inch of him had froze. His mind, for once had stopped whirling as he looked at the man before him, one thought screamed at him. It just couldn't be true._  
_"Bet you never saw this coming."_

_John Watson was right. Sherlock hadn't seen this coming. He had been blinded to what was possible. In Sherlock's nightmare the man before him was Moriarty. John: sweet, loyal and caring John had simply not existed at all. The one thing, the only thing Sherlock had ever possibly cared about had been a lie, a lie he had not been able to see through.__ Those warm brown eyes were dark and full of hatred; the smile on that handsome face was false, lips drawn so thing they were hardly visible.__ James Moriarty was not some villain in an immaculately pressed designer suit. He wore knitted jumpers and stupidly boring brown shoes._

_"And you really didn't, did you Sherlock? See this coming, because my god it was hard." Moriarty turned his head to the side and ran a hand through that mousey brown hair. "It was so hard, to play John Watson. But at the same time it was _so_ easy, because there was no way that John. Simple and stupid John could be clever enough to fool the great Sherlock Holmes."_  
_The man seemed to skip towards him with a grace that betrayed the stiff military character he had pretended to be. Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from flinching back, certain that his knees would buckle if he did so._

_"I am much smarter than you Sherlock. I was able to get to the heart of you." Moriarty laughed at him, shoving hands into his jacket pocket. "I'm watching you burn now, and I know this must hurt."__ Sherlock remained still, fingers gripped around the British Army Browning L9A1 in his coat pocket. The metal was smooth to the touch but he knew he couldn't use it._

_John...Moriarty, whoever the hell he was bounced on the spot, almost giddy. Sherlock wanted to throw up. "Oh god this must hurt you. Which hurts more though Sherlock? The thought I have out smarted you? Or that the one thing in this world, the one human being, alive I may add that could stand to be in your presence is a lie?"_

_The man's hands rustled in his pockets, "I can't let you continue Sherlock, I'm sure you understand."_

_The gun was pointed to his face before he could even think of reacting, a bang, and then…_

Sherlock jumped out of the bed in one single leap, lurching out of the window and taking deep shuddering breathes. The silence, often his greatest solace now suffocated him as he struggled to leave the nightmare behind. Leave those agonizing few seconds when he had felt his heart tear in his chest seeing John standing there. Until the doctor had finally revealed the truth, and a new fear had gripped at his heart.

The detective acknowledged – begrudgingly one may add – that if Mycroft had not turned up it would be very unlikely he would be standing here today, with half his body hanging out of the open window. He had refused to say thank you, trying to ignore his concern when John had sunk to the floor. He was desperate for them both to return to Baker Street, his mind threatening to overwhelm him.

After a few minutes Sherlock bought himself back into the dark, cluttered room. The fresh air had woken him up considerably and he realised that all his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried returned to a certain army doctor. Sherlock was not an emotional man, or rather he tried his hardest not to be. He found emotions confusing and troublesome; they only served to get in the way. Only useful when manipulated. It was much more efficient to be married to your work he found.  
Then there was John, Sherlock mused as he pulled on a tartan bathrobe. John who didn't find him creepy or disturbed, the man who marvelled with unique wonder at the detective's observations.

There were many observations these days. For instance the way Watson's eyes crinkled when he smiled, or that soft laugh, never aimed at Sherlock, he only ever laughed with him. That unique smell of soap, after shave and medical supplies. All that had nearly been taken from him. He had not realised how much he had come to need the doctor, howmuch he had come to care. How he had come to trust the man, almost blindly. John's loyalty and willingness to follow had cemented Sherlock's impossible to earn trust in the smaller man.

Holmes was not bothered by social norms or standards. He knew what he felt for the doctor went beyond friendship. Well, his understanding of the concept anyway, it was not as if he had many, if any friends to compare the situation to. Still, he knew what desire was, the only difference was this desire was aimed at another human being.  
The detective shook his head, such thinking was pointless, and he knew there was no reason to speculate if such feelings were returned.

"A cup of tea will set me right," Sherlock mused to himself before tightening his bathrobe.

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**A short chapter!**

**Quickly edited before I shoot off to work :D If there are huge mistakes, or you think this chapter could use a little more umpf let me know and I'll probably end up revising it!**

**Enjoy :D**


	3. Chapter 3

John looked around upon hearing the door behind him open and he had to fight the laughter that threatened to escape as he saw the tartan bathrobe. "Morning," he said, trying not to stare as his eyes focused on the tousled hair. Or the way Sherlock looked when he was momentarily trying to make sense of something. "You're up," Sherlock stated, walking over to the small kitchen and John heard the kettle being switched on. He rolled his eyes; the excuse for the man's rudeness could be passed off as not being a morning person. Fact was that Sherlock was simply not a people person.

"Brilliantly deduced," John muttered and turned his attention to whatever he had been watching. It was a surprise when Sherlock returned with two mugs of tea. The one he was handed was brand new, a picture of a sad bulldog puppy in a pink bow stared back at him. "Thanks."  
"You're welcome," Sherlock replied before sitting next to the doctor, slumped down so they were shoulder to shoulder yet not quite touching.  
"These mugs are new." John said, taking a sip of the tea. He made a mental note that the man made a good cuppa and would be doing so in the future.  
"Indeed, Mrs Hudson was most adamant I purchase some new ones." Sherlock's eyes strayed to the empty mug on the table. "So you no longer have to hide that one in the breadbin."

John chuckled, "I'll have to try and remember that. Still, you can't blame her for wanting you to replace them, especially after what you did."  
"The consequences were not that dire."

"You blew up her oven Sherlock."

"It was her microwave, not her oven." Sherlock corrected and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. It was a few minutes before either of them spoke again, Sherlock chosing his moment wisely, as John took a sip of tea.

"You're having nightmares." Sherlock said and John spluttered on the tea as it caught in his throat. He placed the mug on the table and coughed a few times. Sherlock smiling slighing as his suspicions were confirmed. "Well I guess there is no reason in denying it. Didn't get any tea on you did I?" John sighed, shoulders slumped.

Sherlock shook his head, "No. Do you not want to know how I came to my conclusion?"

"Not really," John muttered. It was hard enough to admit to him self that the nightmares were consistent. That in two weeks sleep had not come easily to him, that some nights he lay there, afraid to close his eyes. "Doesn't it bother you at all that he walked straight under our noses? That he was right there in that lab with us?" John had meant the questions as a distraction, but he couldn't help that his thoughts were now unravelling.

The detective remained silent, just letting John say what he had to. "We could have stopped him then. He even gave you his bloody number!" John looked into those grey eyes and asked the question before he knew it had left his mouth. "Why did he give you his number? That confuses me, why pretend to be gay just to get your attention."  
Sherlock waited for a moment before speaking. Not realising until now that even normal people could have moment of great insight, whether they realised it or not. He knew that John was expecting an answer, but should he answer? Should he lie? It would be easy enough, the doctor would not suspect other wise. As he thought about it though, he found he did not want to. So he told the truth, in a manner of speaking.

"I've been having nightmares to."

"You-sorry, you have?" John was not quite sure what this had to do with Moriarty or the questions he had just asked but he did not want to interrupt.

"Yes, dreadful things they are. An irrational fear, but that knowledge does little to help." Sherlock confided and John just blinked in response. Not sure what to say.  
Despite living with the man, despite almost dying with the man he really knew very little about him. The most he knew about the detective was that he had a brother, and even that scenario wasn't really conventional.  
"What are they about?" Sherlock stared at him and the doctor rolled his eyes, "Yes okay. I know what they're about. I meant any specific parts? When I was strapped to that bomb?" John failed to notice the detective flinch, "Or how about when those snipers had us cornered, or when.."

"Yes, that's quite all right." Sherlock interrupted, "They are, in fact, about you."

"Me?" John echoed _why on earth would they be about me?_ This was all unfamiliar territory to the detective. Having an actual conversation with someone concerning feelings, messy and unpredictable things they were. Life would be much simpler if they themselves were simple. It would save him a lot of time. "Yes, when you first appeared in that swimming pool I had thought, perhaps you were Moriarty." John couldn't help his reaction this time. The laughter just couldn't be stifled as he took in huge gulps of air. The thought of him as some criminal mastermind was absurd. He forgot to tie his shoes some mornings, put his jumpers on backwards, not realising until he went to take them off again. When it became apparent that Sherlock was not laughing he looked over and was surprised to see the man angry. The emotion looked out of place in those grey eyes, as though they were not sure how to display such a thing.

"I'm sorry," he said through stifled laughter, "But you have to admit it, the thought of me being Moriarty is well…stupid."

"My mind seems to disagree with you. Though the thought lasted but for a second it was enough to upset what hours I do need to sleep." Sherlock stood up and began to pace the room.  
John watched with worried interest, he had never seen the man so flustered. This man who couldn't understand why a woman would mourn the death of a child fourteen years on now looked as if he would burst from his own emotions. John wondered if the man had taken anything unusual, not putting it past him. "What's exactly the matter?"

The detective whirled around on the spot and shouted, arms thrown in to the air, "You could have died John! You almost did!"

John nodded slowly, still not following, "Yes, we could have died, but we didn't. That's a good thing." The doctor tried to soothe the frantic man, despite his calming words it was the very though that kept him awake at suddenly lunged at him and John was rocked back into the chair as the man's strong fingers wrapped around his arms, pinning him down, their noses just millimetres apart.

"What has got into you? Have you taken some th-"The sentence was cut short as Sherlock's lips were pressed against his own. All thoughts, all senses were obliterated as they kissed, as John felt Sherlock press into him with a desperation that confused and scared him. The detective drew back after a few seconds, his eyes sparkling and John found his voice, "What the hell was that?" He gasped, frozen to the spot.

"Kissing, I thought that much was obvious. Unless I did it wrong." Sherlock smiled, _so that's what kissing John was like? Nice, very nice._ He thought as the man before him looked on wide eyed.

"I know what it was! It was…what…you…why?" John felt his cheeks flushed red, he had liked kissing the man, his body had responded, but his mind was desperately trying to tell him that this couldn't be happening.

"You almost died John," Sherlock sat back down as if nothing had just happened between them.

"We both did if you don't recall!"

"No, you misunderstand me." Sherlock mused, it was not John's fault, people often did. "_You _almost died John. That is why Moriarty gave me his number I believe. That is why he took you." When John didn't reply Sherlock carried on talking, watching the man for any sign. He couldn't see any, and this bothered him for some reason."The facts showed me that Moriarty gave me the number as a ploy. A way to taunt me when we eventually did come face to face." John was hardly listening. "I am now inclined to believe the situation was not a coincidence, he knew about you, perhaps, although I doubt, he knew how I felt."

John continued to stare at the man, _Who else could know? Lestrade? Anderson? Sarah? How many have looked at you and Sherlock in that way. How many are judging you now. What would Harry say? What would any of them say? _

He stood up, he couldn't do this now, it made his head hurt, his heart ache with confusion.

He walked past Sherlock without speaking, walked up to his room and shut the door.

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**I'm not too sure about this. I re-wrote this about three times, I wanted John's reaction to be more in character, as I think he's the kind of bloke this revelation may take awhile to accept!**

**Please let me know what you thought! I may not have time to respond to your reviews but I read all of them, and would like to say thank you for taking the time to do so!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock, unlike John had not gone back to his room. In fact he had sat there, hardly moving as his mind struggled to keep up with his thoughts, and surprisingly his feelings. He was not sure what his reaction should be now. He certainly did not feel like himself, when John had stormed past him he felt something hollow open up in his stomach.  
It was not something he was used to feeling, he did not enjoy the sensation, and he wondered briefly if he had made a mistake. He conceded that while the possibility was rare, it did occasionally happen, and feelings were not something he knew a lot about.

Should he go up and talk to John? He heard no movement upstairs; the man was obviously in bed, not a time when interruption was welcome. Sherlock also knew that perhaps the doctor wanted to be left alone, and a smaller part of him couldn't face him anyway. There were so many people in this world whose opinions didn't matter to him, would you like the list alphabetically or in chronological order he would answer if he was ever asked to share. John Watson had not been one of these people; he was on an entirely different list.

So it was a relief when, at half six in the morning a heavy banging sounded at the front door. Sherlock leaped up and found Lestrade upon the doorstep, the normal look of desperation, annoyance and contempt like a beacon on his face. Soaked from the rain the inspector had the look of a man who would rather be anywhere than where he was, but resigned to his fate none the less. "Good you're up, we have a new- nice bathrobe," the man sniggered and Sherlock almost shut the door in his face. The only thing stopping him from doing so was that if he did he would have to go sit back to the sofa and think about John.

Sherlock walked away from the door with out a word and Lestrade let him self in, closing the door behind. Lestrade stood outside the detective's bedroom door and relayed him information about the case as he leant against the wall, trying to ignore the bullet holes. "Two bodies were found around four thirty am behind the Italian Bistro on Main Street. Female early 30's and a male in his late 50's. No ID found on the bodies, wallets still intact and no money was taken, no visible connection between the two victims except each has a smiley face painted on their stomachs in a generic red lipstick."

Sherlock grinned as he changed quickly, the thrill of a puzzle already taking affect and was certain he had already solved the case by the time he had pulled on his coat and scarf. Still he may as well enjoy the ride, it was always amusing to watch Lestrade and his team try to think for them selves.

"The games on," He exclaimed, coming out of his bedroom and clapping his hands together. Lestrade didn't reply, what could you say to a man who found murder fascinating? Instead he stood there, waiting for a moment until Sherlock realised they were going no where and was forced to ask him, "What are you waiting for?"

"Is Doctor Watson not tagging along?" Lestrade sighed, knowing how many rules he would be breaking, how much he disliked the doctor, but he was the only one who could even come close to controlling Sherlock Holmes. He didn't think Anderson's nerves could take the man much longer.

"No he isn't" Was the curt reply.

Lestrade shrugged, he couldn't blame the man, living with the detective must be hard enough, let alone being dragged around at all hours. They left quickly to the car that was waiting out the front and Sherlock didn't look back as they drove on.

x x x x

John woke slowly and unsure of the time, the sun was hidden behind clouds and he could hear the rain hammering against the building. He was dimly aware that something was not right, something was different and it took his brain a moment to realise what that was.

Sherlock.

The kiss.

His reaction.

John felt sick as he sat up quickly now, he did not know how long he had sat in his room last night, just staring at the door, feeling small and pathetic. A small part of him had hoped that Sherlock would follow him up, another part wanting desperately to be left alone.

He picked up his phone from the bed side cabinet and turned it on, staring at the screen for a moment, as if by doing so a message would pop up, but it didn't. He had the distinct feeling that Sherlock was avoiding him, not that John could really blame him. He hadn't even acknowledged the man's confession, afraid of what could happen if he had. John Watson had spent so much of his life being afraid, being told what to do he had missed his opportunity to do what he wanted, to say what he had really wanted to say.

What did he want anyway? There was no point denying the fact that he hadn't noticed Sherlock, found him self watching the man as he bounded around their rooms, blushing when he was noticed. That was normal though, wasn't it? When you spend that much time with someone you are going to notice them? His brain was telling him that wanting to kiss your flat mate was not an every day occurrence. Imagining them touching you so vividly just the thought alone could turn you on was not something every man dreamed of. A small voice was asking him what did it matter if Sherlock was another man. What did it matter so long as it made him happy?

Everything that John Watson had thought about him self was quite suddenly flung out of the window.

His world had been turned upside down and like an idiot he fought it every step of the way. That same little voice, the one he kept locked away had told him to kiss back. Had told him that it was what he wanted, what he had needed all along. That when Sherlock had looked at him, hopeful and filled with lust it had made his mouth go dry.  
He was fed up of running, fed up of being unhappy, fed up of everything being so. Damn. Hard.

He got up on shaking legs and made his way downstairs, not sure what he was going to do, but certain he had to do something. The clock on the mantle piece told him it was only half seven in the morning and it didn't take long for him to realise that Sherlock was not home and could only conclude he was out on a case, as the man had no hobbies or outside interests. The fact that he had not been consulted was testimonial to how much he had hurt the man and it caused his heart to constrict painfully.

The apartment seemed to suffocate him so he went to the bathroom and washed quickly, the warm water doing little too to soothe him, he felt worn out and beat up. He had to get out, had to do something other than sit around. He had to get out do something that would take his mind of the lanky detective.

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**Good, bad? I thought it was lacking something.**

**I would just like to say thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! They really are very helpful!**

**The next chapter(s) will obviously be John making his mind up, Sherlock acting like a child and maybe some more of Lestrade. **

**Hope you enjoy!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock continued to look out of the window as the car sped down the narrow London streets, he didn't know why he did this, as there was never anything of interest to look at. He could usually tell where he was by the way the wheels reacted to the bumps in the road, but right now it was a welcome distraction from the buzzing in his head.

"I don't suppose there is any point in telling you to behave is there?" Lestrade asked from his seat next to the detective. He sounded hopeful and Sherlock would have liked to have laughed if he had the energy. Instead he raised a thin, dark eyebrow and the inspector sighed. "At least try Sherlock."

"You asked for my help Lestrade."

"Please don't remind me." The inspector grumbled, trying his hardest not to look at the man next to him. That was the thing about Sherlock Holmes, it didn't matter what you were; straight, gay, bi or a fucking unicorn, he was a hard man not to notice. No matter what he did he managed to get some response from you. For Lestrade that response was a combination of disgruntled appreciation and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from strangling the man. He had come close to doing just that on several occasions, reminding him self he was in fact a detective inspector and indulging in this one wish would be damaging to his career. To say the least.

"Are we there yet?" Sherlock yawned like a bored toddler and it was Lestrade's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Bit cranky today aren't we? You should sleep more."

"I'm well aware how my body works. We should have been there by now, it takes an hour and thirty three minutes to reach this part of London." Sherlock was not in the mood for the usual banter with the man. In fact, he was beginning to realise he was not in the mood for work. It was a realisation that made him uneasy. Work had been his main purpose for as long as he cared to remember, to find the answers that others missed, to see what they could not. Nothing had come close to rivalling the thrill, nothing that is until John Watson.

Perhaps he should have at least text messaged the man. It would not have taken much time from his excruciatingly boring car journey, but he found he could not quite take his phone from his pocket to do so. That's if it was even in his pocket, last time he had seen it the blasted thing had been in the blender he had nearly turned on.

The car had reached it's destination with out him noticing and it pulled up to a stop. He jumped out, not bothering to wait for the inspector, the rain still coming down hard. The streets were devoid of the usual on lookers, each trying to get under cover or to work. So much for summer he though wryly as he took in the scene before him, sharp eyes devouring the details of the two bodies under the canopy, their environment and everything else that would prove useful.

"You again," The voice of an angry woman sounded behind him as he continued towards the bodies much like a predator on the hunt, not bothering to turn around.

"Good morning Donovan, I see you've gained a little weight this week, eleven pounds to be exact." When he did reach the bodies he stopped and spun round dramatically and looked down slightly. If looks could kill, well, he wouldn't be standing here now. The look on her face also confirmed that he was correct about her weight and he heard several members of the forensic team snigger into their masks.

"Christ Sherlock, play nice for once will you. Donovan what have we got so far?" Lestrade strolled up and Sherlock shrugged, may as well give the man the illusion he was in charge. The same however could not be said for Donovan and he spoke quickly before she had a chance to respond.

"The victims did not know each other, but the killer certainly did. They were lured here; they did not come from this particular restaurant but had dined at the same place separately. Shoe style and soles indicate they did not come into the back alleys of London often, preferring the cleaner, well lit streets, meaning it was someone they had to trust to be drawn back here." Sherlock knelt by the bodies and studied the crudely drawn smiley faces; the lipstick had a waxy, sickly appearance to it. "The images were meant as an insult, the lipstick itself is an indication of this, it was ma-"

There was a grunt of disapproval and the detective looked up to see Anderson standing over him, "Ah, hello Anderson, are you actually here to serve a purpose?" When the man didn't respond Sherlock continued, "This particular type is from the early 1960's, when pastel colours were seen as more acceptable. The colour is bright; 'socially unacceptable' so to speak which indicates this was a very personnel attack on both." He stood up and said nothing, every one of his senses were tuned into the one thing they were looking for, the one thing these idiots had missed, which was most likely everything of value.

After a few minutes he sighed and crossed his arms against his chest, "Will you shut up Anderson."

"I didn't say anything," the man huffed and Sherlock smirked, this was almost fun.

"You are thinking too loud, which in its self is a feat as I believed such developed mental abilities were beyond you."

Anderson leant against one of the metal poles which held the canopy in place and frowned before looking around and smirking. "Say where is your little pet? That doctor?"  
Sherlock visibly bristled; even Donovan was watching them with worried eyes. Her usual attitude to avoid what Sherlock did, said and thought at all times. Advice she was certain would have saved Anderson from the detective's scathing remarks on a few occasions. She doubted such advice would be helpful on this occasion, if the man was intent on playing with fire he was bloody well going to do it alone.

"That is non of your concern," Sherlock responded in a dark, clipped tone. He didn't know why but there was an odd feeling building up in the pit of his stomach.

"You had a lover's tiff? Not that I'm surprised after you nearly got him killed in that swimming pool." The man's thoughtless comments pushed Sherlock over the edge and before any one could react he had charged at Anderson, pinning him up against the cold brick wall. He slammed his long powerful hand against the brick's next to the forensics head, the anger rising in him until he thought it would overwhelm every thing else in his body. It was such a foreign and alien sensation as it made his ears ring and head pound. It threw all logic out of the window and Sherlock gave into it.

Rough hands grabbed his arms and yanked him back; it wasn't difficult for Lestrade and Donovan, who hadn't realised that despite the man's height he did not weigh much.

"What the hell has gotten into you Sherlock?" Lestrade shouted.

"I knew he'd crack," Donovan gasped, too shocked to say anything else.

"Get him the fuck away from me! You crazy sociopath!" Anderson all but wailed, shrinking back further into the wall as the other members of Lestrade's team watched on, whispering amongst them selves, their attention no longer on the dead bodies.

"Anderson go wait in the damn car," Lestrade barked and the man didn't need telling twice as he dodged past Sherlock and disappeared out the entrance of the alley way. No one said anything, no one even dared to think loudly as they held the man, waiting for those grey eyes to stop shooting daggers.

Sherlock couldn't concentrate; couldn't think. What was he doing? This was not him, he needed to compose him self, collect his thought and get control. He coughed lightly and shrugged off the two detectives, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. If John were here he'd know what to say to them all, he'd know what words would make this all better. Yet if it was not for John this never would have happened, and for the first time Sherlock Holmes cursed John Watson. Cursed him for making him feel that little bit more human.

So engrossed in Sherlock's little outburst the team failed to notice the figure that had begun to emerge from the back of the alleyway, hidden in the furthest shadows. Who ever they were moved with a liquid grace that betrayed the lanky silhouette, picking up speed as they neared the group of people. Sherlock felt someone push him hard from behind and he fell into Donovan before he had a chance of reacting and they both landed with a thump on the ground.

"Hey, get him!"

"Someone grab him!"

The crackle of a radio receiver sounded and instructions were quickly relayed, "This is Lestrade we have a figure fleeing the scene. Block of all entrances, don't let him get away!"

Sherlock hissed in pain and looked up through the hair that had fallen in front if his eyes he was able to make out Lestrade already giving chase, the man was fast but not nearly as fast as Sherlock.

He scrambled to get up, mumbling an apology to Donovan, who was cursing him with every expletive under the sun. They fell on deaf ears as Sherlock's long legs had already propelled him into motion as he gave chase.

* * *

**Woo hoo! Another chapter down.**

Next chapter will be John's point of view, what he does with him self as he comes to the conclusion of what he wants to do. (Whether that plan will work or not.)

**Chapter after that will be John AND Sherlock. Feelings. Kissing. The end of the case. (maybe? Who know...oh...I should :D )**

I hope this chapter makes sense, I rewrote it a few times, taking bits out and adding stuff in, so I hope that you like it :)  



	6. Chapter 6

John had left the flat in such a rush he had forgotten that not much was open at eight in the morning, not even Mrs Hudson had been awake, and that woman had a sixth sense for these kind of things.

The London streets were full of people on their way to work, clutching umbrellas chatting absently on mobiles from shop doorways, and John put a hand in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the mobile phone. Hoping, that maybe it would buzz in his hand, and there was only one person who text him any more. Well, one person of any interest, he mused thinking of all the unanswered messages in his inbox, every one of them from Harry.

He sighed, feeling the tiredness affect him physically; his shoulder was throbbing and his head had already started the monotonous pounding. He needed to get out of this god awful rain and he almost smiled when he found a small secluded café a few minutes walk from the city centre. He ordered a coffee and sat down in the furthest corner of the small shop front, sinking into the nice leather sofa. The shop was quiet, not large enough to attract the business cliental of some where like Starbucks, but not over run by students looking for a cheap caffeine fix. An old couple sitting at a small oval table, reading individual newspapers were the only other customers and despite feeling sick the smell of fresh pastries made his stomach rumble.

He groaned a little, he should be back in bed, trying to catch up on some sleep, but the thought of facing all of that, all of…Sherlock seemed a little too much for him at the moment. What had Sherlock expected him to do? Melt like a teenager in to the man's arms, go weak at the knees and announce his undying love? This wasn't some fairy tale, the good guys didn't win, they didn't ride of into the sunset, and they certainly didn't fall for Sherlock Holmes.

He shook his head; _get a grip John_ he thought, taking a sip of the bitter liquid and the thoughts of him and Sherlock riding on the back of a horse were so ridiculous he chuckled to him self. Then the thoughts ran to that kiss, and suddenly he wasn't laughing and his knees did wobble slightly. He had enjoyed it, had enjoyed Sherlock gripping him with such intensity he hadn't been aware that the man could possibly feel. But there were feelings involved; Sherlock had told him this, in a round about way of course. Nothing was ever simple with that man. Now even his own way of thinking had been thrown into turmoil, he had wanted to kiss back, but there was something there that made it incredibly difficult.

Rubbing a hand over his face he hadn't noticed the woman walking past the window, the woman who looked back at him twice before walking into the café, shaking her umbrella. "John?" He looked up quickly, almost spilling his drink before smiling back, "Sarah." He forced a smile, contemplating how difficult this conversation could be. After all he had hardly spoken the woman since their first date. Well, it was hard to keep seeing a girl when a date ended in kidnap and torture, not that he had really minded, they had never really clicked in his opinion. Their few shared words at the clinic where he worked the odd hours hardly gravitated towards heart felt talks, both just as eager to leave. Why she had chosen to even acknowledge him sitting in here was a little bit confusing.

"I haven't seen you in awhile, you look good," She smiled and he frowned as she sat down opposite him, he hadn't slept properly for two weeks, he looked like hell. The young waitress came over and Sarah ordered a pot of tea for her self and John couldn't resist as he ordered a jam scone, not bothering to voice his opinions about his appearance.

"Good, yes, thanks." He realised after a few seconds that this was not Sherlock he was talking to, and perhaps a bit more of a conversation was expected of him. When was the last time he had spoken to a normal person? Lestrade didn't count, "I mean, you look good as well."

"Thank you," There was that awkward moment of silence and John pretended to be fascinated by the drink before him,_ how long does it take to bring over a scone? _It wasn't that he disliked Sarah, she was very pretty, and it saddened him to think of how things had ended between them. It's just every time he thought of her he couldn't help but think of Sherlock, and how much more intense his eyes were.

Thankfully the waitress returned with their order and Sarah spooned sugar into the mug, her eyes never left John though. "I've been reading your blog you know."

"Y-you have?" It always unnerved him to think that people actually read the thing.

Her eyes sparkled as she took a sip of tea and settled into the sofa a little more. "I can't stop; it's fascinating, if a little scary. The whole clinic is addicted to reading it, were glad you're alright though after the swimming pool fiasco." He nodded, a little thin lipped as he picked at the scone, suddenly not that hungry. She seemed to sense his mood and she leaned over and placed a hand over his. "I'm sorry John; I didn't mean to bring it up."

He was startled, but appreciative of the comforting gesture and this time his smile was warmer, "No that's okay, I guess I should expect it after writing it for the whole world to see."

"I really am glad you're okay, I miss seeing you around the clinic so much."

"Yeah, my hours are some what limited, busy running around London and all that."

From there the conversation just seemed to gravitate towards the one thing John wanted to avoid: Sherlock Holmes. How brilliant, infuriating and down right mind boggling the man was. John found, despite the topic he was beginning to enjoy the conversation, so much so that he ordered another coffee, another scone for him self and one for Sarah.

He had just bought up the mug of coffee to his lips when Sarah smiled at him, "It's nice to see you've found someone who can make you happy, and who doesn't mind all the danger."

He choked on the hot liquid, _why do people wait until I'm drinking to say stuff like this? _ "Y-you think me and Sherlock?"

Sarah blinked a few times, biting her lip hard to stop from smiling at the clearly flustered doctor. "Aren't you? The way you spoke about him I just thought? I mean it doesn't bother me at all."

John pounded his chest a few times and rubbed his eyes, what was he supposed to say? _No I'm not with him, but you see he kissed me last night and now I just can't seem to get the bastard out of my mind. Even sitting here talking to you I'm wondering what it would be like to kiss him. _

His revelation seemed to hit him like a tonne of bricks. There was no more wondering, no more uncertainty in his thoughts.

It was as if he needed someone else to confirm it for him. He was the soldier, always taking orders, as if it may soften the blow some how, as if it would be easier for him to follow through with what he wanted to do.

x x x x

It was a little past nine in the evening when John finally returned to Baker street, the rain had refused to stop all day and he was certain that even his underwear was now stuck to his skin.

He had sat and stayed with Sarah for so long that they had ended up ordering lunch from the café and Sarah had even cancelled the errands she had been planning to run on her day off. Both content to sit there and talk with countless hot beverages.

It was oddly uplifting talking to the other doctor, she listened without the condescending sneer that his therapist had given him. Occasionally the conversation would stop and they would watch people pass by, but it always returned to one detective. Now that his head and heart seemed to have reached a similar conclusion he could talk about Sherlock with a smile, no longer afraid that the world was out to get him.

"Sherlock?" He called out, disappointed once again when there was no reply. He had not heard from the man all day, his phone had remained silent as he had browsed through the shops. Trying to figure out a way to resolve what happened between them. John was very much like the detective, such feelings did not come easily to him, and he wasn't entirely certain how to apologise with out sounding either like a dick of a fourteen year old boy. Cheeks blushing, hands behind his back with one foot rubbing the floor in front of him.

John let his coat and shopping bags fall to the floor and he fell on to the sofa. Despite the contended feeling he now seemed to be supporting, exhaustion still clawed at his body and despite knowing that sleeping here would wreak havoc on his neck he couldn't find the energy to move.

He took in a deep breathe and could smell Sherlock on the cushions, the man seemed to invade every waking moment of John nowadays he realised through a groggy mind.

He had resolved to remain awake so that when the detective did return he would be ready to talk. His body had other ideas as sleep settled in before he could even consider sitting back up.

* * *

**This chapter was a PAIN to write. I didn't want John to talk to Harry, and I thought at first he would not want to talk to some one about how he feels.  
**

**But he had to talk to someone! So I chose Sarah :D**

Anywho! I hope this chapter works, and I'll get started on the next one :)  



	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stormed through the door at exactly twenty three minutes and fifty seconds past twelve, cursing under his breathe and stomping his mud soaked feet. His face stung from the cut upon his cheek and his left eye which was now swelling nicely. His body protested against all the running, jumping and fighting he had done today.

"Bloody idiots the lot of them, stupid, moronic bastards. They couldn't catch a cold!" He raged to him self, not caring if he woke the whole of London.

They had finally managed to corner the suspect, no thanks to Lestrade's back up who had not been able to navigate the more hidden areas of London. Even Lestrade and Donovan had been gasping for air by the time the man had given up, a slightly wild look still glinting in the eyes partially hidden by and old baseball cap.

"You're…under…arrest," Lestrade had wheezed and Sherlock rolled his eyes, the man was innocent, for the most part. So distracted by their incompetence he failed to notice the fist aimed towards his face as he fell for the second time to the cold hard floor, it was a feeling he was beginning to dislike. It had not taken long for them to restrain the man after that. They tried not to gag on the smell as the man looked and smelled as though he had been living rough on the streets for some time. Sherlock knew some damage had been done to his face but ignored Lestrade's requests for him to go home, and Sally Donovan's attempts to hide the smirk from watching him get a beating.

There was still a murderer to catch; hopefully it would delay his return home long enough so that he would be able to avoid John.

He shook of his ruined coat, now torn and soaked through and dumped it by the front door, knowing it would be disposed of by Mrs Hudson eventually, "A perfectly good coat ruined!" He growled as he sulked towards the living room flicking a light on, noticing John's own discarded jacket on the floor before seeing the man himself.

Ah yes, that delightful episode he mused as he made his way closer to the sleeping man. With all the excitement that had continued through out the day he had almost forgotten about this little fiasco. Perhaps it would be best to sneak off to his room before John could wake up.

His thoughts were interrupted as John began to whimper slightly in his sleep, his movement becoming more erratic and Sherlock was worried that the man would fall off the sofa. He moved quietly despite his height and sat down right on the edge of the sofa by the doctor's head, he shook John slightly, noting that the man's jumper was still damp beneath his touch.

"Wake up." He instructed, not expecting what happened next, or expecting the man to wake up at all.

John cried out and shot up, eyes wide and lost and before the detective could react John had flung his arms around the taller man and was clinging on with such a vice like grip it scared the detective momentarily. Long arms wrapped around the doctor without having to think about it and they sat there in silence. Sherlock could feel the sickening thud of John's heart, the slight tremors that ran through the compact body.

John was twisted at an awkward angle, muscles protested against such a thing but he refused to move, trying to steady his own heartbeat, trying to regain control. He didn't know where Sherlock had come from and he didn't care. The man's warmth was enough to chase away what remained of that nightmare.

Sherlock breathed in deeply, taking in everything he could about the man curled around him, he could smell the rain that still lingered, could feel the heat of another person under his own fingers. Pain gripped his heart and he swore at John for doing this to him, for getting close to him.

"Still having those nightmares I see." Sherlock whispered and John pulled away, eyes downcast and red as if finally realising what he was doing.

"Yes…I- Sherlock, I'm sorry." John rubbed his face and Sherlock pulled away and stood up, eager to get dry, to be alone.

"That's quite alright John, there is no need to explain yourself."

"I guess not." John looked at Sherlock, desperate to talk about what had happened, to fix what was broken between them when he frowned, "What happened to your face?"

"A minor misunderstanding, nothing serious I assure you." Sherlock inclined his head and shrugged, for once understanding why people found it so off putting when he stared at them. The way the doctor was looking at him now made him feel vulnerable, as if he was a book to be read, it was not a feeling he was used to.

"Hmm, well sit down and I'll take a look at it." When the man didn't move John stood up and walked into the kitchen, "It wasn't a request Sherlock. Sit."

Sherlock decided it was best to do as his was told and flopped back onto the sofa, there was a feeling of unease in the air but at least John was talking to him, didn't hate him.  
"Interesting case I take it?" John asked, kneeling in front of Sherlock as he placed the dusty first aid kit next to him. Opening it he rifled inside to pull out some antibacterial wipes

.  
"Not particularly, the deceased man naturally had been having an affair some time ago. Fathered a daughter he did not know about, his son however did, decided to take it upon him self to 'defend his mother's honour, and most likely his inheritance. " Sherlock hissed slightly as the cloth brushed the torn skin and John smiled in apology, "Where was I? Oh, yes, such a ridiculous notion nowadays, I've seen that women are perfectly capable of taking care of them selves. As I said it was easy enough to deduce, the man hadn't even discarded the lip stick. "

John shook his head at the man's thinking, trying not to focus on how soft the skin of his face was. "And the black eye?"

"I was distracted by Lestrade's stupidity."

John took a shakey as he handed Sherlock the packet of peas wrapped in their only clean tea towel, to stop a little of the swelling. "Listen, Sherlock…about earlier."

"It's quite all right John."

"No. No it's not." John muttered, eyes avoiding the man before him as he heard his heart start to hammer in his chest again, as he tried to gather his thoughts, _Stop being so pathetic John. For gods sake you were in the army! You were shot at, you already know that he has feelings for you. Just do it soldier boy. That's an order! _

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock didn't understand.

John stood up shakily, that little voice in his head was not giving up, only this time it wasn't something in the background. It was screaming at him, _for the love of god kiss him!_

He grabbed Sherlock roughly, the man's shirt was soaked, the rain still clinging to his pale skin and John pulled the detective towards him, kissing him as though he would never let go. _Screw Lestrade, screw Mrs Hudson, and screw the whole damn fucking world, _he thought as Sherlock moaned under his touch, the sound shooting tendrils of hot energy through his body.

Sherlock was too shocked to do anything but comply, for once his superior intellect was not asking why. It was merely surrendering to the moment, the feeling of John surrounding his every sense. When at last they had pulled apart, a little breathless and even more dishevelled John was beaming from ear to ear at the slightly bewildered expression on Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry…blimey, I really am."

"What ever for?" Sherlock managed to choke out, still trying to get his bearings.

"For not doing that sooner." John chuckled.

"Ah...yes, quite. Well I think after such a display a cup of tea is in order," Sherlock returned the smile, trying to control the absolute joy that was surging through his body. It was hard, because he could never remember feeling like this, it was an impossible feeling to deny.

"Good idea. Very good idea I'd say." John agreed.

* * *

**Woo hoo! **

**They finally kiss.**

One more chapter to wrap things up I think. Or I don't know. I may add a few more, see where there relationship takes them, get Mycroft involved again.

What do you think? 


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